Sometimes, I find it really amazing how every single one of us has a story. How can so many people exist with so many different stories? Who can ever keep track of all of them like that?
Sometimes I imagine what they could be. There’s a young lady with a low-tied ponytail crouching at a dustbin, her hand rummaging through and throwing half-squashed cans out onto the grass one by one. She seems a little hasty, and people look at her as they walk past.
I wonder why someone so young would be doing what only usually old people would do. Maybe she’s helping her grandmother. Maybe she’s a crazy can collector/hoarder. Or maybe she’s doing some art project made of recycled materials.
And then there’s this old, tan, man jogging (even faster than I can) and he shoots right by me. He has a scraggly white beard dotted with bits of grey, and is wearing this tank top and shorts. He could easily be more than seventy. Maybe he used to be some crazy-famous boxer. Or maybe he works in the army. Why would someone so old still run like that? He looked pretty cool.
I once saw a woman tearing up on the bus. Her eyes were red and watery and she was staring blank ahead of her. I wondered what happened too. (I think I did that at one point too…tearing up on a public bus…i wonder if anyone noticed me too._.)
Stories that are sort of a secret.
We all will never know what comes next.